Badlands Bloodsport

Slappy thrust out his chest. “Huh! Put a bounty on it and I’ll scalp it. The whole cockeyed world can kiss my ass!”

“Jesus, you’re a holy show. How’d you manage that play?”

Slappy’s chest suddenly sank in and embarrassment crept into his tone. “Ah . . . I shoulda tried that ’baccy trick myself, Skye. I fell plumb to sleep and rolled off the box.”

“I reckon I’m partly to blame,” Fargo admitted. “I needed to call a short sleep break, but I wanted us as far as possible from those tranced-up braves when the sun rises.”

“I say, Fargo,” Blackford said, “that harness appears to be in a fine bollix.”

“Ain’t it, though?” Slappy said. “And all them war hatchets not far behind us. Hookey Walker! Well, I done it, so it’s meet and just that I straighten it out. Looks like you got that sleep break, Fargo.”

“I’ll do it,” Fargo said. “I’ve got that tobacco sting keeping me awake. Besides, Tumbledown Dick, we’ll all be a lot safer if you grab some shut-eye.”

Fargo suddenly noticed that Slappy’s holster was empty. “Where’s your short iron?”

“Must be under the team,” he replied.

“It was under the team,” spoke up a familiar voice from the darkness behind them. “Right now it’s aimed at Fargo’s back, and the famous Trailsman is finally at the scrag end of his life.”

 * * * 

Fargo damned his own stupidity. With everyone’s attention focused on Slappy, it must have been child’s play for Derek to crawl under the wagon from the opposite side and then circle around behind the group. Clearly he now held the whip hand, and Fargo’s mind raced to find a plan.

“Unbuckle that gun belt, Fargo,” Derek ordered in a voice laced with triumph. “You owe me half an ear, and I’ll collect it before I leave. And anyone else, ladies and lords included, who even moves a hand will soon know if there’s an afterlife.”

Fargo, playing for time to think of something, anything, had not yet touched his leather gun belt. “Derek, now that you’ve killed Skeets, I’m the best shot left. What’s your plan—to challenge that Cheyenne battle leader to a bare-knuckles match? You can’t escape—there isn’t a horse left that can hold even a trot for twenty minutes.”

“Your horse will do after I give him the rest of the water. And it won’t matter one whit if he trots or walks. I intend to hamstring the rest of the horses and take the best weapons. That way those bloody savages will reach the rest of you first and will have a jolly time of it spilling your entrails and carving out your eyes. Fargo, drop that belt, I said, or I’ll shoot that whore Jessica in her filthy quim.”

Fargo complied, letting his rig fall draped around his feet.

“Derek,” spoke up Lady Blackford, “you can’t just—”

“Turn off the tap, m’lady.” Derek cut her off. “As soon as things are a bit more tidy here, you’ll be dropping your linen for me. A bit of the old in-out, eh, what, duck? You’re the only woman here that Fargo hasn’t pronged, and I’ll not eat off his plates.”

“Now, see here, Derek,” Lord Blackford spoke up, “isn’t there a more profitable way to settle this matter? I can deed over to you a property in Warwickshire worth ten thousand pounds.”

“You aren’t half an arse, are you? Fargo’s barmy talk about defeating these savages with rocks is merely air pudding. The cunning bloke hasn’t killed me only because he plans to hand me over to the sodding Indians and tell them I shot that red nigger who was crawling about in a buffalo robe. No, Lord Blackford, a dead man cannot profit from your wealth, and every sorry soul here shall cross over sometime tomorrow except for Derek the Terrible.”

Fargo still hadn’t turned around. Derek called out, “Now kick the gun belt a few feet off, Fargo. Then very slowly, use your left hand to pull that frog-sticker from your boot and toss it with the belt. Any fancy parlor tricks and I’ll pop one into you.”

Fargo did as ordered, sliding the Arkansas toothpick out.

Derek laughed. “Cor! The bigger the blade, the littler the man, right, Trailsman?”

“Derek,” Slappy spoke up, “if you was any lower you’d be walkin’ on your bottom lip. These ladies has got to be took to Fort Laramie.”

“Stifle it, you old pus bag. Two of those ‘ladies’ are Cockney whores who wallow in the dirt like bitches in heat. If I didn’t know those gut-eating savages will do a better job of it, I’d shoot you low in the guts, Ebenezer, just to hear you scream.”

“If I’m such a little man,” Fargo said evenly, “how’s come you’re so scared of me?”

“Scared, is it? Kiss my lily-white arse! Let’s all hear more of this treacle.”

“For the past few days all you’ve done is promise that you’re going to beat me down. You make your brag how you’ve whipped every man who ever knuckled up to you. Now you’ve got your chance to prove it and you’re just going to leave me to the Indians? If that ain’t a coward I’ll eat my hat.”

“Fargo,” Lord Blackford intervened, “I daresay this path is folly. Derek is not a hollow boaster—he has won dozens of matches and even killed several opponents. Bethink yourself.”